The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,27

slightly, she felt the lumpiness of a mattress under her and smelt the sharpness of male. A bed, the captain’s bed most likely. Her blood pulsed in her ears as she felt with her rear, and then a hand. She was alone, so far.

The feel of eyes on her was unshakeable, however. She wormed further back against the bulkhead and pulled the quilt higher as she strained to hear what she couldn’t see.

Sometime later, she heard another sound: an eerie, unearthly cry, which seemed to emanate from the bowels of the ship. Long and querulous, it faded to a slow death. An animal was her first thought, and yet too distorted by distance to be sure. Within a few moments, she heard it again, this time seeming to originate from outside and high above.

She lay awake through the night, jumping and starting at every creak, pop or vibration. At last, when the black of night gave way to the thin grey of dawn, she dozed off, too exhausted to care.

Chapter 3: The Lie Behind the Truth

A distant pounding jerked Cate awake. Only her eyes moved as her sleep-muddled mind strove to sort out what had wakened her. The brilliance of morning squeezed around the curtain and through the porthole in glaring shafts that sliced the cabin’s gloom.

“Cap’n!” There was no mistaking Pryce’s bellow. The Great Cabin’s door was knuckled again with increased vigor. “Cap’n!”

Someone stirred in the salon. The rustle of clothing and creak of leather was followed by a groggy, “Eh?”

“Beg pardon, Cap’n, but you’re desired—”

“You can come in, Master Pryce.” Neither was there mistaking Blackthorne’s throaty growl.

She heard the halting clump of boots, and then a hesitant, “Cap’n, if you be of leisure—”

“Bloody hell, Pryce. Come in the damned room and stop caterwauling like a wretched fishwife!”

Even at her distance, Cate jumped at Blackthorne’s roar.

The footsteps sidled further.

“Beg pardon, sir. ’Twasn’t wishin’ to intrude.” Pryce’s insinuation wasn’t lost: a woman in the captain’s cabin was apparently a familiar scenario.

“There’s no intrusion to be made, Master Pryce.” Blackthorne’s reply came around a huge yawn.

“Some o’ the hands represent as they heard screamin’ last night, of the womanly sort.”

The comment came not in the way of accusation, but advisably, a delicate suggestion that a bit more discretion might be exercised the next time.

“Did they now?” said Blackthorne coldly. The scrape of a chair was followed by the stomp of a foot and labored scuffle of walking with one leg asleep. “And pray, what did the remainder hear?”

“Nuthin,’” came dully, after a brief pause.

“Uh-huh. I thought as much. She’s in there, if you desire to inspect for damages. ’Course, that would be to risk stirring her up again. You fancy caterwauling, do you, Master Pryce?”

Pryce sputtered and humphed.

“Was there an initiating purpose to this visit?” Blackthorne prompted.

“Huh? Oh, aye, sir! The bosun sends his compliments and, if yer of yer leisure, desires ye to attend. He says the larboard lift blocks an’ crosstrees on the fore gallant won’t answer. And the Company muster will be a-waitin’ yer leisure at eight bells.”

“Very well, lead on, Master Pryce,” said Blackthorne through another yawn, and the two left.

The salon now quiet, Cate took the opportunity to wake further.

Through a dull headache, she sought again to come to terms with where she was. A part of her concussed mind clung to the familiarity of her surroundings—the watch bells still pealed, the boatswain still bellowed, the holystones still scraped and the caulking mallets still rapped—and insisted if she was to close her eyes, she could still be on the Constancy

“This isn’t the Constancy, it’s the Sara Morgan or Carry Morgans, or whatever,” she said aloud. She had been aware of Pryce calling the ship by a different name, but was at a loss as to what it had been.

Cate opened her eyes and blew a long sigh. Yesterday, she had prepared to never see the sun rise again. Seeing the morning rays cut the cabin’s gloom had to be taken as a victory. The bone-rattling terror had given way to mere gut-knotting dread. Her hands no longer shook, the quaking reduced to no more than sporadic tremors, and her heart had slowed to a rate that promised it wouldn’t leap out of her chest after all.

Awaking in Blackthorne’s bunk, with no idea of how she had come to be there, was unsettling. Even more worrisome was to think she had slept through being moved and wrapped in the quilt. With all the fitful waking, she didn’t